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Wednesday, October 05, 2011

My very genuine (albeit belated) efforts in becoming a model employee are thwarted (I am not sure if that word applies here but I’ll try it anyway as I like to showcase my perfect knowledge of the English language) by the fact that I am sick… as in always sick. I had some kind of flu last Thursday and Friday and tonight I have a horrible cold and am all congested which means that I am not going to work tomorrow. My gut feeling is that the savvy cocktail of drugs, booze and cigarettes I was on, was what boosted my immune system and now I am finished. Another possibility is that Obama had a cold and gave it to me when he shook my hand, rather vigorously, at the Human Rights Campaign dinner on Saturday. If at least my poor health would cut my appetite, I would be happy but it looks like if these repeated diseases kill me, they will kill a fat gay man. I eat incredible quantities of food at an amazing pace and am now heavier than Roy which is disconcerting.

My recovery (isn’t it cool that I have my own recovery?) is doing well - thanks for asking - and combines many initiatives at once: meditation (15 minutes in the morning … not a huge success), acupuncture (I have two different acupuncturists who feed me huge amounts of Tibetan medicine), EMDR (some bullshit psychological treatment), therapy (my new therapist is great and only half the cost of my previous one), some yoga (when I am not too weakened by my poor health). I also have a sponsor but have not had the courage to open the Big Book yet. I go to bed early and try not to get too stressed out.

Sunday, February 11, 2007

It’s amazing how gay leisure time flies by since I became single after LL’s death during that terrible boating accident back in August. Often when my long week-ends are expelling their last breath in a depressed sigh on Sunday night and I emerge from my stupor, I wonder where these hours went. I always find little pieces of to-do lists scattered all over my apartment with awful little things on them like “read a book”,“read a book”, and “send an e-mail to Fred” . I never get around doing any of it. Often I merely found the time to brush my teeth or clean up the vomit on the bathroom’s carpet over the week-end, let alone read anything.

Drinking is that missing link between the professional thingy and the gym. Drinking is that massive black hole which captures gay dreams and gay fears and turns them into nothing. When I say drinking, it encompasses related activities such as nurturing hangover, sleeping with strangers, going to the gym, stalking people on friendster, and discussing meditation techniques with male dancers, the hours curled up on people’s doormat, various embarrassing moments and the occasional 3 a.m. traffic accident. It’s all related to drinking. Drinking is the cornerstone of my very gay cathedral. Incidentally all of my posts are connected to each other by a drinking monotheme. That puts me in such an awkward situation when The Others ask me on Monday “so what did you do over the week-end?”. If you are genuine and have the strength to answer you can reply “I got a little drunk”, then they chuckle and then they say “for the last three days?”, then you reply “for the last six years” and then they chuckle again and run away. I usually tell them I read the fountainhead all week-end, it gets them going and reassures them.

Wednesday, February 07, 2007

I went running today. It was about 14 °F with an awful wind particularly on the segment that goes from the Senate to the Washington monument. I had no idea what this number meant because I never even tried to understand this Fahrenheit business. Fahrenheit is already an awful thing to spell (compared to Celsius), let alone to understand. I admit I completely lack intellectual curiosity and am incredibly shallow. I did manage to get used to pounds. Still I had gathered it was cold but I am still fighting the peapod effect so I felt I would never forgive myself if I skipped this run in my “weekly routine”. As I do not have running gloves, I went without any. In addition, as I suspected there would be other crazy gay people running on the mall in order to get strong legs (a must have this season), I decided against wearing a hat. There was not anybody jogging on the mall.

Unconsciously I knew this was a risky thing. I even thought it would probably be painful. It is an important trait of my personality: I am obsessed with pain to the point that I often forget about the possibility of death. I actually would not mind death too much if I could get a guarantee that it will be painless. Anyway all that to say that about 25 minutes into the run, I discover with amazement that I had lost all feelings in both my hands (particularly the one which was clutched firmly on my ipod) and one of my ears (the right one). That ear had actually already experienced frostbite more than ten years ago because of another esthetic choice of not wearing a hat during a ski trip.

I managed to revive my hands (clearly I am not typing this with my tongue) but my left hear has doubled volume and I contemplate having it amputated. Also I don’t really expect my hands to ever look the same as they turned black. I feel I have reached a new milestone in my gayness. I am known to exercise even when I am sick or injured but running to the point of damaging my delicate extremities is new to me. Moreover, we all know I’ll be severely ill tomorrow and won’t be able to exercise for a week.

Friday, February 02, 2007

While I was painfully running today at lunchtime (ref. previous entry), a small jogger in his forties bearing a moustache started chatting with me. I looked closely at him to see if he was some acquaintance or colleague of mine but he was not. I concluded that he was some crazy person and as I was not really in the mood for crazy people, I kept my headphones on and started running a little faster. I probably still had in mind the story Ari told me about Supreme Court Justice David Souter being attacked while jogging and the fact that nothing indicated that the attackers were not small jewish men with moustaches. He ran next to me for a little still talking vehemently. I just kept on glancing at him panicked that he may have a weapon hidden in his shorts or something. Eventually he stopped and went the other way, nodding to me with a smile. A few miles later, I deduced that the unidentified man must actually have been my primary physician. It is the second time we meet on a jogg path and that I do not recognize him. He mentioned a first similar occurrence last time I had him on the phone. He must now think I am mentally retarded, snobbish and contemptuous of the medical profession (and if I was why would I spend so much time with doctors?). That also probably explains why there was not any follow-up to my check-up.

But after all, isn’t it the same guy who slipped me some benzos prescription acting as ifthey were innocent sleeping pills?. Side effects clearly list forgetfulness and confusion particularly for patients with a chronic alcoholism history. Even more anterograde amnesia is also apparently a somewhat common side effect, which might explains why I still cannot build a sentence in Portuguese after several weeks of lessons or in English after years of residence in the states.

Sunday, December 31, 2006

NDLR: Well maybe I have to admit that I did not exactly follow the plan. I did not vomit and I switched Cobalt for Halo. And I went to bed at 5 a.m....so yeah..maybe I had fun. Here ! You're happy ? But some raw youth pierced my left leg and I had to crawl to my computer to write this and I lost my cap and broke my watch. Happy new year kiddos.

First, I’d like to confess that the enclosed image is stolen from Vividblurry’s 2006 New Year entry, but I felt it could benefit from a little additional exposition. So Happy New Year to you my little friends out there!. You know how much I appreciated your patronage in 2006 and look forward to spending additional time together in 2007.

I promise I’ll be more enthusiastic next year and maybe even blog about Saddam’s tragic death by hanging but can we all agree that New Year’s Eve sucks?. Where was I last year? In Paris with LL and I can remember feeling the same angst. I think this holiday finds me moodier than usual because I resent the pressure to have fun as a predicament of what’ll happen in the year to come. I have to be cheerful. I don’t do cheerful. I just don’t. Plus I have a zit right above my upper lip and I need to iron a shirt.

This year my strategy is much better: I’ll leave home by 11:00 p.m. already drunk as I really cannot afford to see any New Year’s Eve silliness sober. I’ll crawl to the party where I expect the Champagne to be of the best quality and the guests to be wealthy enough (these curbs are parallels) to guarantee a glib conversation. There I won’t make any attempt to small talk but stare with hostility to the youngest guests until midnight. When midnight hits, I’ll vomit on the carpet. At which point, I’ll stumble to Halo, find a stranger to return home with and call it a leap in the New Year.

I think I could have dealt with Max’s kind of New Year’s Eve this year or perhaps a Yoga seminar in Vermont. But then Max was clever enough to be in a relationship by New Year’s Eve and I don’t have the joints for Yoga. I can hear the entire humanity starting to have fun outside my apartment and it panics me. The pressure…

Thursday, December 07, 2006

The biggest impediment to a smooth blogging these days is the fact that my brain is fried. My brain has actually been fried for years and I am known to have considerable difficulties getting through a book (someone was asking me today if I had finished this biography of Pamela Harriman I have been reading for the last 3 years) but I feel it is a little fryer than usual lately. I am not sure what exactly causes that slow deterioration of my intellectual capacities. It might be the results of my few years of drug abuse (2002/2003…maybe 2004 too I don’t remember), cell phone use, or perhaps I did not really recover from the exposition to Polonium-210 during my trip. Maybe a recent mix of sleep-deprivation, alcoholism and – to a lesser extent - sexual promiscuity is the main cause. But the fact is that I am just not able to function properly: even trying to keep up with a coherent conversation at lunchtime leaves me exhausted (I have stopped trying to enounce my own ideas and merely repeat the last three words of everybody’s sentence). I tried to read a peapod prospectus for 3 hours today and it left me red-eyed and haggard. I also tried to get in a kevinless 1624 corcoran last night after work until a neighbor reminded me that I had moved. I have reached the point where I start re-reading old e-mails to gather clues about my past. I also have difficulties to coordinate my movements when I am walking and people at the “professional thingy” have probably noticed by now that I keep my hand on the wall in the corridors to avoid falling and disgracing my family name. Yesterday I bided against myself on e-bay: clear sign of irreversible brain damage. I can feel the mass destruction of brain cells occurring as I am typing this and big black holes appearing in what was once known as “one of the most promising brain in Dupont Circle”. Please don’t mention anything to the Washington Sailing Marina or Zipcar as they'll play a role in the official visit.

In other news, even if I am short on sleep, I’ll go out tonight because this is my last night of fun before the official visit which starts tomorrow evening. More interesting literature on KMZ’s grandmother.

Sunday, October 08, 2006

From time to time when I play Tennis in Georgetown, there is this harmless pair of classical DC fag which come play next to us. They are talented: clearly they are awful morons but one has to admit that they play well. If it’s too early in the match, my entire game gets completely horrendous and I usually end up leaving rapidly. If it is towards the end , it usually improves a little. This is very similar to my sorry flirting pattern.

As a general rule, I am not too bad at flirting: I used to make a living out of it in my early days in DC where the only way for me to get a good meal or a jacket was to seduce old people, priests and Vietnam War veterans. But I am completely incapable to flirt with sexy people. Actually let me rephrase that, I am incapable to even converse in the dullest manner with them. How many times, did I find myself motionless, sweating, and incapable of pronouncing a word (let alone an English word) in front of one of my crush… caught like a rabbit with myxomatosis in the lights of a car at night praying for something terrible, like a rabbit genocide, to happen. What I can do is running away in the most awkward manner, being insulting and curt, sounding awfully pretentious or leaving them with the strong impression that I am severely autistic. The longer I stay the more erratic my behavior becomes. Of course this does not contribute at all to get me laid but it gets me a lot of very attractive nemesis and anonymous benefactors. All of my long term boyfriends (or at least the few that were attractive) told me afterwards: “You know…when we met I had no idea you were normal, I just have a fetish for retarded people” (no offense to retarded people intended…by all means).

As a general rule, I think that a good host should always invite his guests who do not look like haddocks two hours after the common ones so that people can enjoy themselves in a stress-free environment and are sufficiently lubricated (with alcohol) when the time to interact with the people they want to sleep with has come. Yeah I’ll probably grow old by myself.

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

With my little housing search, I believe that I have reached the apex of my potential as a whiner. Having dinner with a good friend of mine last night, I found myself able to say cute little sentences such as “you known between my recent divorce, the professional thingy and my housing situation, these are tough times for me”. I also look a little anemic and worn out these days which create a nice setting for my well rehearsed tirade on how miserable my life is. I feel that complaining about one’s situation is the most amiable of socializing forms: it makes everybody feel better about their own lives, calls for advice and kind words and create endless opportunities for vivid and warm conversations. Of course this only applies to whining for inconsequent things: one should never complain about disability, death, poverty or anything real of that kind because it could make his audience uncomfortable. One of the reasons of that paradigm is that actually real friends prefer to see you slightly unhappy because happy people don’t really need friends. Whining is basically underrated because it is commonly described as a selfish and meek way of expressing yourself while it actually is the kindest and most selfless way to engage your fellow human beings. The lies on whining are mostly spread by huge assh*les like Dale Carnegie and cult leaders and always in the name of positive thinking – this terrible disease which afflicts so many American households. Comedy, for instance, is just a disguised form of whining moreover when it is self-deprecating. What is more genuine than sharing your miseries with a stranger? I personally despise the people who never have anything to complain about: they always are suspicious and boring to me and either are vain weirdoes or unrealistic fools. They also are free riding on other people’s complaint to fuel their dinner conversation which is unacceptable and balance their tedious outlook on life. Nothing pretty has been created by positive thinkers, all creation is a complaint. My advice to you: trust the whiner above all because he has the courage to open up to you.

Thursday, February 09, 2006

I have always been an envious bastard! I am truly conscious that it is not good but I am just your average gay envious bastard. It is not only a repulsive personality trait; it also happens to me a major SIN… envy …YES. Actually I believe it happens to be one of the seven deadly ones or isn’t it? I learnt them with Brad Pitt in Seven like everybody else. I remember now: ‘Because I envy your normal life, it seems envy is my sin.’ ‘What’s in the box?’‘…I just told you”…funny Kevin S. and I would share a common sin as we already share the same hairline. LL, on the other hand, is definitely a Glutton (and a drunkard…and a friend of tax collectors ….but that does not count) so we are both f**ed and will be broken on the wheel first thing when we get to Fantasy Island FOR ALL ETERNITY after our death (I only believe in Fantasy Island…my belief bars any depiction of Tattoo – peace be upon him). That is so like us, we could not limit ourselves to minor sins (like infidelity, not being circumcised, breaking the toilets and walking away or stealing underwear from people – Kevin D. adopted this one) …no…we had to go all the way and get deadly capital ones.

I envy everything I can: dogs, nano ipods, smokers, random people’s waist, Hayden Christiansen, babies, houses, cars, abdominals, driving abilities, youth, stock portfolio, positivism, clothes, concert tickets, being a student, genes pool, casual sex, promotion, jeans…you name it. I constantly repeat to myself "Thou shalt not covet" but nothing …. I am still you good old envious bastard. I don’t envy Clay Haiken though. I mostly envy material objects because I am a materialistic f*ck too. Isn’t that horrible? Envy is basically defined as sadness at the sight of another’s goods and the immoderate desire to acquire them for oneself. Worse, I enjoy inspiring envy to my fellow disadvantaged brothers…I am hyper envious. That’s it I am Smeagle, the mean Gollum! FHC is a half-naked hobbit (slightly taller than your average hobbit but not much) who creeps in the East Coast darkness and preys on your things. Just this week, my friend Mark D. was wearing a really nice beige coat that he only paid $100 (Benetton sale apparently) he told me and before you know it, I was like “it would fit me really well, if you die in a car accident I’ll claim it to [his boyfriend]”. He looked at me as if to say..."do you really want it that much?” and then he started to cry and only when I held him close, did he stop.It was really embarrassing for everybody involved! I ran into Rodolphe B. and his nano Ipod yesterday at Results, I think he suffers from Lust. I envy that… I wished that was my capital sin…

Friday, February 03, 2006

We had a good look at the scary little numbers of the “2005 Annual Summary of Charges” during the last few days. Interestingly enough, I charged about 44% of my net income to my credit card. When you know that another 25% are spent on my rent annually, 7% on my Pension, Health Insurance and Life Insurance, 2% on my electricity, this figure only leaves me 20% to pay for my drinks, my cabs, my therapist and to tip my exotic dancers. No wonder I cannot afford Aspen gay ski week. Seriously, though, I still have to wait 2 years to rely exclusively on LL’s salary.

Liquors (Cairo Liquor: $284.58) is included in Groceries. Ticket/events only amounted to $398.07, a clear sign that I am not doing much of my life. I spent my morning trying to enlarge Vividblurry’s rent check picture to see how much he spends without any success.

Dating LL in English can be tricky. Our friend ♥LL, just recovering from his drunken evening, wrote to us “I hope you don’t mind if I have a little sniffle over the WE”. I had to look for a sniffle before asking “Why ? what do you have to cry about ?” (assuming he had finally discovered our little Capitol Hill affair with a semi-famous Democrat of Irish decent but was happy for it to continue as he was having a few of his own in New York in our absence). Thank god I did not confess anything as he actually replied “Ha!Nothing to cry FHC, just my cold L”. I am going to New York this week end ($1735.2 of plane ticket to NYC last year – Thank you).